Dear Sherlock,
by MudbloodPride
Summary: Set during the events of TRF and onwards. When Molly finds it all too much to bear, she forms her own sort of therapy to deal with the pain. However, will she be able to deal with his exile the same way? It's Sherlolly all the way with a healthy sprinkling of Mollcroft friendship. Rated T for potty mouth words.


**A/N: Moran on the hospital board is an inspiration from a fanfic I read. I don't remember which one unfortunately. But hey, if you think you know, tell me, and I'll thank them by name here :)****  
because I can't remember, I'm just going to say Thank you fanfic author, for that idea. :)**

**Note 2: The timeline is actually more accurate than what I could have done on my own. I simply Googled "Sherlock Timeline" and an article on archive of our own came up.**

**Therefore for both these things, I can and WILL NOT take credit. They belong to their authors and I apologize for not mentioning them by name and for my carelessness in not attempting to remember them.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

15th June 2011

Dear Sherlock,

It's late and I think I'm going to lose my mind soon. You've been dead only a day. Where are you? Are you safe? Are you with your brother? When are you coming back? Will you ever come back?  
Questions are spinning through my brain Sherlock and I think I'm going mad. Is this what it feels like to be in your head? With your wonderful mind that never stops working?  
I wouldn't know, I'm not that smart. Sherlock I hope you're okay, where ever you are.

I wish you'd left me a note or something. But I suppose there's no guarantee is there? Whether you're coming back or not? I'm going to miss you, Sherlock Holmes. This secret is going to be the most difficult one to keep, ever.

John came by a little while back; your homeless network could only keep him away from the morgue for so long. I barely had time to lock the body away before he came barreling through the door.

"Where is he?" He demanded. I shook my head and told him I'd sent you off to the coroner already. He seems frozen Sherlock; the shock of what happened seemed to have made him absolutely numb. He just sat on his stool and stared at your microscope for a while. I took up your fake records and sat next to him. We stayed that way for so long Sherlock, so long. And then you wouldn't believe what happened. Greg dropped by. Mrs. Hudson was with him, they were both looking for John.

And there they were Sherlock. The people you died for, together and safe and weighted down by unspeakable grief. I suppose I was an idiot to do what I did; I can practically see you rolling your eyes if you knew.

"It's funny. This lab was one of his favourite places," I looked up at them, trying not to cry. "He would have liked this. All of you here." I don't think I dropped any hints or anything, but I was so scared I was going to spill the beans that I got up and rushed away. When I came by again at the end of the day, they were gone.

Sherlock, I feel so terrible. I have the power to bring their pain to an end, just like that. But I promised you I wouldn't. It's almost three in the morning now and I feel a bit better after writing this. Of course I know you'll never read this, it's not like I know where to post it to. If someone else finds it, they might know your secret so I'll just hide it away for now and give it to you if you ever come by. It's not going to be easy to do this, especially without you around. I've never told you this but having you around has always given me strength.

I will miss you Sherlock.

Come back soon.

Love,

Molly xxx

* * *

17th June 2011

Dear Sherlock,

I met your brother today. He picked me up an hour before the funeral. Your parents never came; I suppose they're in on it too? Mycroft kept me back until he was sure John and the others had left before we came to your grave. I think he was afraid I'll succumb to the pressure and blurt out the truth. To be honest I was a little afraid of that myself.

We didn't stay at your gravestone for long. Just enough time to make it seem appropriate. It's really morbid to day this but I like that gravestone. It's smooth and polished and new, the lettering sensible and the colour completely yours. When I looked at it I remember you in your Belstaff, ivory skin against the ebony fabric, your dark curls and high cheekbones, the way your hands play the dials of the microscope as if it was another violin.

Mycroft told me you disappeared on him too. I find that a little hard to believe. I'm sure he has a couple of ideas as to where you are. I didn't press him on the subject though. Don't tell anyone I told you this but I think he actually got a little misty eyed at the cemetery. I cried a whole lot. It wasn't that hard to pretend, I think I've needed a good cry for a while now.

You know, your brother is actually quite nice. He took me home and bought me a chocolate tart on the way. Then, instead of going home, he just sat there and drummed his fingers and looked down his nose at Toby before finally sighing and sharing my tart. He's quite strange, but a nice strange. Like you, actually.

Mycroft said he'll drop by whenever he can with updates. He seems to have a fondness for desserts so I gave him the last of that bitter chocolate pudding I made last week. Clearly the Holmes brothers both have an undying love for chocolate because he seemed more than happy to take it with him.  
Is he married Sherlock? Your brother? He does wear a ring. It's kind of amazing how I'm infatuated with you but I don't really know the first thing about you beyond 221B Baker Street. Nothing about your parents or if you have other siblings… I'll bet you know all about me though. I guess the mystery of you just adds to your allure Sherlock. Now I can picture you flipping up your collar and grinning smugly at me.

Oh, there was a post on John's blog yesterday. I'm sure you know which one I'm talking about. He still believes you Sherlock. I hope you know that. I don't know how he's going to get through this in one piece. I can only help so much; I'm not as close to him as I wish I was. Mrs. H mentioned something about him going to his therapist again, after ages. I hope he's okay. He's limping again, Sherlock. If you ever thought you didn't have friends, you are sorely mistaken. The number of hearts you broke by dying is far more than I could have broken if I had died. Just remember that.  
I still miss you and I still wish I could see you one last time.

I hope you're safe.

Please be safe.

Love,

Molly xxx

* * *

1st July 2011

Dear Sherlock,

Good Lord, you almost gave me a bloody heart attack today!

I walked in, tired and grumpy and terrified, thinking my flat had been broken into and who do I find in my bed? The one and only Goldilocks I know. I know you didn't like it when I almost bowled you over with a hug but honestly I don't care, I'm just so happy to see you again.

How long are you staying Sherlock? You keep saying you're not sure, but I don't think it would be for very long. It would ruin the whole plan if you were to stay for too long; you're too striking, too noticeable. Eventually, someone or the other will recognise you. I just want to know in the hopes that I don't just wake up one morning and find out that you're gone. You're in the shower right now, complaining that my shampoo smells too sweet. Of course it smells too sweet you stupid man, it's strawberry and vanilla.

I suppose I should be expecting Mycroft over in a bit. I should ice those cupcakes and keep them ready.

I didn't tell you this, and I don't know if I want to but I went over to see John and Mrs. Hudson a couple of times. The flat is hauntingly empty Sherlock. It's so quiet without the constant banging and clanging and shouts from you. I only met Mrs. Hudson though, John wasn't there.

Sherlock, I think John is moving out. Mrs. Hudson said he barely comes home anymore, and that she's sure he's gone back to that apartment he used to have. I don't think Mrs. H is taking it well. She's lost both her boys now. I think I'll make it a point to visit her more often and John too.

But I'm not going to be the one to tell you all this; I'll just leave that to Mycroft. I can hear you finishing off your shower, so I should stop and hide this with the other letters. Of course it's not really meant for your eyes, it's more of a therapy thing. Oh God, now I have to think of a better hiding place because I know you'll snoop around the apartment.

I have to go.

I'm so glad you're back, even for a bit. I hope you don't suddenly disappear on me though.

I'm always here for you.

Love,

Molly xxx

P.S. you smell like strawberry and vanilla now. I don't think I'm ever changing bath product flavours again.

* * *

15th July 2011

Dear Sherlock,

Once again I'm up at some godforsaken hour, writing to you because I can't sleep. You left three hours ago. Mycroft sent that PA of his (honestly, how is she so pretty and put together AND so efficient at the same time?) and off you went. I don't know when I'll see you again, so I'm glad I had a moment to say goodbye. Mycroft called me afterwards and told me to get rid of all your things. He'll send someone tomorrow to pick it all up. I spent the last hour picking up all your belongings which are littered around the flat. Sherlock Holmes, you are an untidy, untidy man. I think it's your fault I lost my rainbow jumper; it's very likely drowning in all this mess. Now I have a bag full of your spare clothes, the disguises you wore and some knick-knacks you brought into the house to keep yourself occupied. I am keeping one thing though, and that's that purple shirt of yours.

It's not stealing, I swear. I'm taking it for safekeeping. Mycroft will probably incinerate whatever is in that bag and I can't bear to think of the purple shirt meeting that fate. I'm wearing it right now. It smells like you too, and is quite cosy. Don't you mock me for being sentimental; I think I'm obligated to be a little sad right now.

I'm glad you came, Sherlock. It's hard keeping a secret, so much so when there's not a single person around who knows of it too. The two weeks I spent with you gave me back the courage I thought I was losing. I can do this, if only for your safety. I'm sure you've learned my entire life story by now, what with staying in the apartment for so long. Well Mr. Holmes, not to boast or anything but I've learnt quite a bit about you too.  
I've learned that you are sometimes a menace to live with but you love Toby (don't deny it) and you watch crap telly with me because you like it, not because you're bored. I've learned that you might as well have been born a cat because you literally purr when I card my fingers through your hair. By a conversation I happened to overhear (not on purpose, I swear, I just forgot my phone) I know that your mother is terrified and wants you to come home immediately. I also know you spent a lot of those disguises tailing Greg, Mrs. H and John. Bollocks, I think I'm a little bit more than infatuated with you now.

You said you're leaving the country, so I don't suppose I'll see you in London for a long, long time. I think I might use up some of my holiday time and go abroad too. I need some time away to think.

I hope you come home soon.

Good luck Sherlock.

Be safe.

Toby misses you.

Love,

Molly xxx

* * *

25th December 2011

Dear Sherlock,

Merry Christmas!

I know it's been a while since I wrote a letter, but it's mostly because I would have just gotten awfully repetitive. The days aren't easy Sherlock, what with people still talking about you like you're a fraud. It makes me so mad when they do that but on most days I'm not upset enough to write a letter.

I took that holiday I talked to you about in my last letter. I did go to France, in August. Paris is a wonderful place. I was sort of hoping to run into someone nice there. I know it's silly of me to tell you that, I mean why would you want to know? Well, anyway, it was a lovely three weeks. There was this one instance when I thought I saw _you_ there. I was mistaken though, because that man, although he matched you in height and the general features, was there with his wife and children. It's funny, now that I think of it. Maybe it's because I saw him at a distance. Perhaps you will go to Paris on day and run into your French doppleganger. Now I wish I had gotten close enough to see whether he had your eyes.

Mycroft was surprisingly alright with me going to Paris. He said something about having influence over keeping me protected in France too. I think he has me tailed by his men daily now. I don't know if it makes me feel safer or even more nervous.

I don't know what you're doing out there Sherlock, but whatever it is, it must be working. There are police reports about Scotland Yard catching spies and terrorists all over the place and Mycroft doesn't sound as worried any more. Rather, he's got this new determined gleam in his eye, like he can see you breaking this web apart, strand by strand. You're so far away and yet you're worming them out of their hidey-holes here in Britain.

I kept my word and visit Mrs. H as much as I can. She's so lonely now, poor thing. She hasn't even cleaned out your flat; everything is there just the way you left it. I suppose Mycroft is paying the rent for you. Your case is still ongoing Sherlock, and I think they're uncovering new facts. There was a point when one of the hospital board; a Professor Moran, demanded they do a check on me, because I was always lending you body parts and things like that. Thankfully, the records of missing parts mysteriously disappeared and so Moran had to drop it. I found myself baking more chocolate cake for Mycroft though.

I meet Greg - Lestrade, in case you've permanently deleted his name from your brain- quite often too. All that unrest you're causing hasn't been for nothing but the deaths don't stop and so there is a constant supply of bodies. Quite a few interesting ones came through actually, you would've loved them. On the plus side the murderers are careless and Scotland Yard is managing to tie the cases up, somehow or the other.

But, even Greg isn't above saying it - you could have solved them all in a day. The Yard is suffering without you Sherlock. How can they keep their sparkling track record after chasing you off? It's childish, but I feel good about the fact that they're suffering without you. And then there's John.  
To be honest Sherlock, I haven't met John for a while now. We tried meeting constantly, but I think I just remind John of you too much. He's moved out of Baker Street. He officially confessed to Mrs. Hudson that he couldn't stay, that it was too much and left two months ago. I see him in passing at the hospital sometimes. And you thought you didn't have friends. Sherlock, you're the glue that holds these people together and without you we're all falling apart.

I miss you so much. I know we weren't as close as you are with the others, but you were a big part of my life. You still are. I'm used to seeing you all the time and not having you around the morgue has made me realise how awfully lonely I am. I know we never really spoke much and you did order me about but we worked together in amiable silence more often than not.

It's getting a little easier to keep this secret now that I've distanced myself from the others a little bit. It makes me feel so tainted, to have to sit with them and cry and hold their hands as we speak about you and what a wonderful git you were. I have to keep reminding myself it's for the best. Mycroft tells me you're in China now. Is it nice there?

I hope you're okay. I live in a constant state of fear that one day Mycroft will walk through that door and tell me you're dead. Please don't be dead Sherlock. I couldn't stand it if you died.

I'm being silly aren't I?

I'll stop for now.

Stay safe Sherlock.

Love,

Molly xxx

* * *

14th February 2012

Dearest Sherlock,

I'm so clichéd aren't I? Writing to you on the fourteenth? It's the thirteen year old girl in me I suppose. She always comes out whenever something sappy or sentimental happens. I don't know what it is about popular holidays, but it makes me start hurting again for you, really, really badly. Maybe it's the good cheer. Maybe it's seeing other people enjoying the holiday, oblivious to the sacrifices some of us have made so they could stay that way. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I remember you only on Christmas or Valentine's Day. I think of you almost every single day. It's just that time numbs the pain a little and it only becomes too much to bear at certain times. I try to think of the good things you're doing out there and the times when we had fun. Like, for instance, the time we experimented on that fungus under Mr. Trent's left thumbnail. Oh god that was a right disaster. And yet, I had never seen you enjoy yourself more. It's one of my favourite moments to remember about you.

I'm writing today for two reasons. Maybe three. Or, okay, maybe four.

Firstly, I finally did it today. I lost it a bit and yelled at Greg. I don't think I said anything that would risk letting the cat out of the bag but oh, Sherlock I'm so sorry. It's just that Sally Donovan was going on about you and he was doing nothing to help and oh God, I just thought how dare he and blew my top completely.

"How can you let this happen?" I asked, almost crying, "he was your friend."

Greg looked utterly miserable.

"I'm sorry Molly," he said blinking rapidly, "but I'm under probation too, and I have nothing to go on, I- I don't know how to stop this." His voice broke a little at the last bit.

"He died for you," I whispered under my breath before flinching. i'm terrified of even putting this down on paper. If Mycroft gets wind of it he'll kill me. Thankfully Greg didn't notice; he was busy wiping his eyes. It was a very close call.

Secondly, I think John has taken it into his head to move on. He's not visiting his therapist as often, and he's got this new job at the clinic. He hasn't however moved back into Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson keeps trying to get me to bring him back. I don't have the power to do that Sherlock and for that I am truly sorry. I do keep a weather eye on him though. He's still limping.

Thirdly, and this is not very important, I am going on a date tonight. His name is Tom. I quite like him. He's quiet and sweet and made a rather nice first impression. I'm looking forward to spending more time with him. There's really nothing wrong with him at all; you could dissect him and he'd be as squeaky as a whistle. He's picking me up in about ten minutes.

Now, the fourth and final thing. I don't even want to say it, but I suppose I have to. It's embarrassing but really, the final reason I wanted to write to you on Valentine's Day? Because I want you to be my Valentine of course. Would you? You were Mrs. Hudson's last year. She made you take her to all the museums and art galleries this city has to offer. John and I got together that night, the stags of Baker Street and spent the entire time laughing at you. How did we know, you ask? Greg lent us one of those little cameras and recorders. We fixed it into the inside of Mrs. Hudson's coat. She never noticed a thing. It was all very elaborate and highly unnecessary but with you, nothing is simple so it had to be done.

I think you did figure it out after a while though. John told me later you came home and sulked for half a day. You were always so clever.

I think I hear Tom, so I have to run.

Happy Valentine's Day, Sherlock.

I hope you're safe.

Lots of love,

Molly xxx

* * *

15th June 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Today is the first anniversary of your death. Can you believe it's been a year? I can't. These past few months, I have been drifting from feeling normal to feeling like time is frozen and I'm stuck in a limbo for days on end. I don't understand why it is so difficult for me. Maybe it's hope. Hope, I've come to realise, is a nasty thing Sherlock. Because hope keeps me thinking about the day you'll walk in through that door. Mycroft is worried again. He says he's lost track of you. This time I believe him but this time I'm not as scared. Do you know why? Because you've been out there a whole year, Sherlock. And so my faith in your abilities has increased tenfold.

Mrs. Hudson wants Greg, John and I to visit your grave with her. I'm going. Especially because I'm not sure if John will show up. It would mean so much to Mrs. Hudson if the rest of us go. They haven't spoken in ages. The days are cold and bleak again Sherlock. Tom is worried about me. I know it's hard for him to understand, but he's trying and for that I'm truly grateful. The newspapers clearly have no better stories to write because they're digging up yours all over again. Tom keeps asking me if there was ever something between us. I feel like giggling hysterically every time he does.

"Tom," I assure him, "trust me, Sherlock Holmes didn't feel that way about me."

He would frown and nod but I know his unspoken question.

_Would I feel that way about you?_ And after all this time? I still think so. It's that nasty hope again Sherlock. Because you really aren't dead, I can't bring myself to move on. I know you're going to barrel back into my life someday, be it today, tomorrow, in a year or in ten years. And I am a pathetic fool because I would welcome you back into my heart with open arms. Now I'm confused Sherlock. I think I do like Tom, a lot. I can even see a future with him. But my affection for you, although nullified by your absence, still exists. What do I do?

Well, let's not talk about that now.  
On a more humourous note, did I ever write to you about the slow deterioration of Phillip Anderson?

Oh Sherlock who would have thought, of all the people to start believing in you, the first in line would be Anderson? He's obsessed Sherlock. He's lost weight, he's lost his job, and he's started a blog - a blog, Sherlock- called the Empty Hearse. He well and truly believes you're alive and out there. Most people, including Greg, think he's mad, but you won't believe the number of followers he has. "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" is a proper thing now. I'm following the blog too. Sherlock I know you don't like him, but Anderson is hitting so close to the truth with his opinions. There are so many theories out there on how you did it and how the set of fantastic international cases that have been solved this past year have all been solved by you. Mycroft is amused and a little irritated at how right he is.

Anderson has also figured out one particular detail: that I helped you. He's been quizzing me on and off for a while, until recently when Tom and Greg both got too irritated to let it continue. They threatened him to leave me alone or else. So did Mycroft actually, and God only knows what he said to the man. Poor Anderson. He walks backwards at least ten steps every time we're in the same room now. If - when - you come back I think I'll have to give him a two hundred page long apology.

I think though, that it's good for you, all this good attention he's bringing to you. Good for your image. Not that you care about image, I just mean, well, Anderson has gathered people from all over the country and many parts of the world that believe in you. Anderson, although everyone is loathe to admit it, gives us all hope. A hope that is useful in the better times, but tragically, unnecessarily painful in the worst ones. And yet we demand it because no-one can help wondering if you're still out there. It's going to be an odd anniversary of death, Sherlock. Very unusual. Unique, one might say. Just like you.  
I wonder if the significance of this day would affect you. I wonder if you're in a position to wonder about the significance of this day or whether you're out there fighting for your life. Without Mycroft's updates, I don't know anymore.

I'll be going now Sherlock. Your friends need me today.

I haven't forgotten you Sherlock Holmes. I hope you haven't forgotten me.

Hope you're safe.

Love,

Molly xxx

* * *

15th February 2013

Dear Sherlock,

Happy (late) Valentine's Day!

I also wish you a very late Merry Christmas, a Happy New Year, and a very happy belated birthday. We're almost upon two years now aren't we? Mycroft is furious with you by the way, he keeps complaining that the only way to get you out of wherever you are now is to get his hands dirty. He'll disappear on me too, one of these days.

I haven't seen John much lately. Maybe once in two or three weeks, we meet up with Greg and Anderson (yes I said Anderson, I'm looking quite fondly at him right now) for drinks. Beyond that, contact is down to a minimum. Mrs. Hudson is angry at him for not coming around, or even phoning her. I don't blame her, I would be too. But it's not my place to push him to do something he obviously finds very difficult to do. I have decided, if he ever stops limping again, I will push him then. Until then, I refuse to say anything.

Sherlock, something wonderful happened. Tom asked me to marry him. I thought long and hard about it before eventually saying yes. You may wonder if I've moved on from you. I'm not going to lie, I don't think I will ever completely get over you. But, let's be rational. I love Tom enough and he loves me. We'll be happy together. It's not wrong of me to want happiness is it? A loving husband and a family?

Why am I even telling you this?

I know I didn't write to you in a very, very long time and I apologize for that. It's just that as I told you many months ago in one of my first letters, writing is a form of therapy. When I miss you too much I bring out the pen and paper. Time and being with Tom has made it easier, and makes me hurt less.  
It does not mean however, that I stop thinking about you.

There has been quite some progress on your case. Greg finally got clearance and was told what was going on. They've found holes in Kitty Reilly's story, Sherlock. It makes me want to dance with glee. Greg really misses you. There's this gang of robbers out there called the Walters family. Catching them is so difficult and they're driving Greg _insane_. I'll bet you could have pinned them down in a jiffy.

Well, it's been lovely writing to you once more, Sherlock. I hope you're okay and that Mycroft finds you soon. I think you're needed here in England. I haven't lost hope.

Love you.

Molly xxx

* * *

3rd November 2013

Dear Sherlock,

You're cleared!

You're cleared!

Oh god I feel like crying. It's all over the news, the hat detective has been cleared and Richard Brook was proved to be a guise of Moriarty. Everyone is stunned. You aren't a fake after all. Greg came by earlier. He looked drained and tired. Apparently Anderson is still plying him with theories on how you survived.

So many people seemed quite ashamed when talking to me today. It felt good to see you finally getting the respect you deserved in death.  
Tom is quite curious as to how you did it. I wonder sometimes, whether I should tell him. Then again, it's not my secret to share. Besides I'm fairly sure that Mycroft, from whatever end of the Earth he has disappeared to will get to know and shoot me.

John has met someone and- get this- he's grown a moustache. A moustache. Oh Lord. Sherlock come back, if only for the sake of John's face. Anyway, her name is Mary Morstan and she's a nurse. I quite like her and I think you would too. After weeks and weeks of silence, he came out with us once for drinks and brought her along. I think she's good for him, I really do. She's funny and smart and they seem really happy together. I wonder if you'll be okay with her when you come back. Oh god, speaking of which, how in the world are you planning to explain your death to John? If you didn't die then I'm pretty sure you will at his hands once you show up.

This is a short letter I know, but I don't have much to say. Only that I still do miss you and I hope you'll come back soon. Anderson has this theory that you're moving closer and closer to England, something he's come up with by marking all those fantastic foreign cases on a map. He does have a point there; I believe you're gravitating towards home.

Well, I'm off to work. I have the night shift today.

Stay safe Sherlock.

Love,

Molly xxx

* * *

15th July 2014

Dear Sherlock,

Why am I even writing these to you anymore? You're back, and safe and sound in Baker Street. I'm sure you're busy helping Mary with the wedding planning. Honestly she doesn't need John to help out with you around.

You had a rather odd request tonight. I must say I'm impressed with your highly detailed file on John. I must remember to ask you whether you measured his urine too. That would be a highly entertaining story to hear.

There is also this other thing that has been plaguing my mind for quite a while. That day, you asked me out on a case. I had a lovely time then, by the way. It was great to see you in action, doing what you do outside the morgue. It's been on my mind a lot lately. I don't know why. It just seemed so unlike you, I suppose. I guess not having John around justifies your behavior (you totally deserved that punching just so you know. Really, you might as well have jumped out of a cake instead. Git. I would have done exactly what John did) although I can't help wondering if it's something more.  
I think I'm reading far too much into things.

You know, I haven't planned a single thing for my own wedding. Tom keeps urging me to pick a date and decide on a church and so on and so forth but I simply can't be bothered. There's something very wrong here isn't there? How can I not be bothered to plan my own wedding? Perhaps you should help me out.

I'm quite tired Sherlock. And I'm hurting badly again. I don't tell Tom because I don't think he'll understand and I don't want him to worry. What is happening Sherlock? You're back, and my secret is no longer a burden on me. I'm engaged to be married. I have a cat and a dog who get along and a number of close friends. I have a wonderful job and a loving fiance. I should be happy. Why am I not happy?

Molly x

* * *

10th August 2014

Dear Sherlock,

I saw you leave early tonight. You just slipped away in the middle of all the dancing. I know dancing isn't your thing, but really, I expected you to hang around and lurk in the shadows. I would have even liked to keep you company. I'm going to tell you some good news. Well, good for you. I think I'm breaking off things with Tom. He's - I don't think he's the right man for me, Sherlock. I could lie and pretend there's something wrong with him but there isn't, really. He's sweet and nice and I wish I could be happy with him but I can't. And you know why, right? Because of you.

Oh I'm not saying it's your fault, God knows you haven't done anything to show any kind of interest in me, or anyone. I just think love isn't meant for me. Because really, there is no man that can reach the place you have taken in my heart. You'll probably scorn me now, for being a sentimental fool. I would too. I am a sentimental fool, Sherlock and I don't think I would ever be happy with anyone.

I suppose I should go find three more cats now.

Sherlock, will you be alright? I don't think marriage would change anything between you and John. Mary is such a sweetheart, she tries so hard to get the two of you to spend more time together. I'd say that next to Mrs. Hudson, she's the biggest Johnlock fan ever. That's a ship name by the way. It was done by your many, many fans. You must have come across the word when reading John's blog entries. I won't get into detail but you should ask Mary about it.

I felt rather pretty today, at the wedding. Did I look nice? I know I didn't look as nice as the bridesmaids but I hope I achieved a look better than that of That Christmas. Good Lord, wasn't that a nightmare. Your best man's speech was lovely by the way. I was so worried about the telegrams, but clearly nobody cared about that at all. Now that speech Sherlock that was pure love and affection and it was no weakness. It was beautiful.  
Oh Sherlock, you're growing. You don't know how happy it makes me to be able to say that.

I think I hear Tom so I better go. I have something I need to tell him. I'm so confused Sherlock. I'm going to go through hell for the next few weeks. I just hope I'll get through them in one piece.

I have to go now.

What am I doing Sherlock? What have I done? What am I going to do?

I wish to God I knew.

Love,

Molly xxx

* * *

11th September 2014

How dare you.

What have you _done_?

I feel so angry right now I want to throw something. I want to scream and stamp my feet and scratch your eyes out, you bloody arsehole. This past month has been the most difficult one in my life. Do you know why?

Let me tell you why, Holmes.

On the 15th of August I broke off my engagement to a kind, gentle, loving man because I couldn't go through with it, because I knew I didn't love him as much as he deserved. This left me heartbroken and homeless because I'd moved in with him and I had to leave, immediately. The lack of a ring spurred a flood of sympathy from my friends, including Mary, John and Lestrade, and I know, I just know they pity me because they know exactly why I couldn't marry Tom. It breaks my heart that I'm so pathetic in their eyes. Poor little mousey Molly. I hoped that you'd come around and your nonchalance will protect me. But I was wrong. You never came around. Instead, what did you do?

For an entire month, none of us heard a peep out of you. My days in the morgue were as lonely as they were at home. It was so unbearable, Sherlock. You don't realise what a good distraction you are. But where were you when I needed you? That's right; you were holed up in some shitty little house, snorting coke. Three slaps weren't enough, Holmes.  
If I ever find anything of the sort _anywhere_ near you again I will murder you. I've done it once Sherlock. Don't fucking doubt me.

Things were simply peachy from then onwards.

I couldn't sleep at all for days. I still can't.

Let me just offer my condolences to you on the end of your engagement. What a pity that was. I'm sure you and Janine would have been very happy together. You deserved each other, really. Seven times in Baker Street and all that. I just came home from the hospital - from your sickbed actually. John told me about your lovely little proposal. I don't know why I ever thought you had a heart Sherlock Holmes. You are a cruel man. You have no right, _no_ _right_, to do this to me. You have no right to take drugs and ruin your life. You have no right to trick a woman into a relationship for a case. You have no right, Sherlock Holmes, to die without my say so.

I am crying so hard right now I can barely write straight. You absolute arsehole, Sherlock Holmes.

Fuck you.

Fuck you for making me love you so much.

If you die, I will die. That is all my thirty one years of life have taught me. Years, I spent, doing medicine and pathology and this is all I've learnt. I would do anything for Sherlock Holmes. What kind of a mess am I? I know I don't count for much in the grand scheme of things, Sherlock but for fuck's sake. Don't. Please just don't do this to me. I don't think I could survive this kind of thing much longer. Seeing you, on that bed today, my heart broke a thousand times over.

Oh Sherlock. What am I going to do with you?

Get well soon,

Love,

Molly xxx

* * *

He knocked on the door softly. Three knocks, as always. He could hear her padding down the hallway, and a soft meow from the little hellcat as he liked to call it. Not that he'd let Molly hear him call her Toby that. No, if that happened, he was sure the chocolate cake would stop at once. The door opened a crack. A brown eye widened before the door opened fully and she let him in.

She was wearing a bright red jumper, with a large embroidered Christmas tree on it. He would have winced, but by now he was used to her atrocious taste in clothing.

"Merry Christmas Miss Hooper," he said softly. Molly tilted her head, smiling, albeit a little confusedly.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft. Is something wrong?" Mycroft picked the edge of his sleeve nervously.

"Have you heard from my brother lately, Miss Hooper?" Molly shook her head.

"No, not after he left to your parents' house, with John and Mary" she frowned. "Aren't they there?" Her eyes narrowed even further. "Wait, why are you here in London, Mycroft? Your mother would never let you leave so early." Mycroft hated that he was so aloof at times like this. He tried to break the news as gently as possible. There was a pregnant pause before he forced his mouth to work.

"I came to tell you, Miss Hooper, that my little brother – he's been charged with murder." Molly's eyes widened.

"What?" she whispered, "No. No, he wouldn't. Would he?" Mycroft nodded stiffly.

"I saw it. I was there." Molly leaned back in her chair, her hands twisting together.

"And," she was struggling to speak, "and what is going to happen to him?" Mycroft licked his lips.

"He's being sent on a mission, to the Middle East. Indefinitely." Molly's eyes were shimmering.

"And after that?" Mycroft closed his eyes.

"I'm afraid, Molly," it physically pained him to speak the next few words, "they give him only avout six months before he is discovered and killed." Molly made a little choking noise. Mycroft opened his eyes to see her with her face buried in her hands. After a moment she raised her head.

"Will he come back to London?" she whispered, "to say goodbye?" Mycroft shrugged.  
"Maybe," he said evasively. He knew she knew the real answer. Molly's eyes flashed. It suddenly entered Mycroft's mind that Miss Molly Hooper was the one that had given Sherlock Holmes the old one-two.

"Molly?" He asked cautiously, "what are you thinking?" She tapped her fingers casually on her knee.

"Mycroft," she said softly, "exactly where in the Middle East is he being shipped off to?" Mycroft now felt extremely uneasy. This was not what he expected.

"I'm not allowed to say Miss Hooper," he said quietly.

Her eyes gleamed but she nodded. "I understand. When is he leaving?"

"A week from now."

"I see. Thank you." Mycroft stood to leave.

"I'll see if I can arrange for you to meet him, Molly." She nodded, her eyes shimmering again.

"I'd like that, thank you. Oh wait!" She disappeared into her bedroom for a minute or two and emerged with two parcels.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," she said handing him one. It was wrapped in bright red wrapping paper, bright enough to match her jumper. Mycroft could tell immediately it was a jumper. His mouth curled upwards.

"Thank you, Molly." Both their eyes fell on the second package. It wasn't wrapped yet, merely in a paper bag. It was a very old bag, Mycroft noticed. She hesitated a moment before walking over to her writing desk. Quickly, she scribbled something on one of her flowery little papers, put it in an envelope and put the envelope in the paper bag. It fit in perfectly with the rest of the gift. They were a set of letters, Mycroft realised and he knew exactly who they were for. She wrapped the paper bag messily with sellotape, finishing the entire little roll.

"Give this to him," she said quietly. Mycroft reached for the parcel. She held it out of the way for a moment, meeting his eyes.

"Give it to him when he gets on that plane, Mycroft. Only when he gets on that plane. Could you do that for me? Please?" If it were anyone else, Mycroft Holmes would have put the parcel through Anthea, to be broken apart and examined closely. But this, this was Molly Hooper. He couldn't do that to the woman who had saved his little brother's life. He nodded.

Molly started to cry. Stepping forward she hugged him, burying her face in his coat.

"Promise?" she asked. Mycroft was at a loss. What was he supposed to do? Hesitantly he stroked her hair.

"I promise... Molly." He held her for a little while longer, partly because he was too scared to hurt her feelings and let go.

Let her take the lead, he thought to himself. A moment later, she leaned back, hiccoughing.

"I'm so sorry," she said with a watery laugh. Mycroft waved off her apologies and wished her well before leaving. He was barely out the door when he heard her crying once more. Once in the sleek, black car parked outside Molly Hooper's flat, he pulled out his mobile phone, ready to call Sherlock and force him to come see the young woman.

As he waited for it to switch back on, he thought of all the reasons in the world his brother had to come and see this kind, wonderful woman that loved him so much.

* * *

Sherlock stood at the entrance of the plane, taking one last look at John and Mary. It gave him a twinge of sadness to know that little baby Watson would never know her godfather. It gave him more than a twinge of sadness to realise he regretted his decision to not go back to London one last time. He wanted to see his friends. Especially a certain pathologist who had only gotten a single phone call from him.

Well. This was it then. He nodded to his friends and turned.

"Sherlock," called his brother, "one moment please."

He handed him a badly wrapped parcel. Sherlock frowned.

"What is this?"

"A gift, from Miss Hooper," Mycroft replied. "It hasn't been opened." Sherlock nodded, a little surprised at how much Mycroft trusted the little pathologist enough to not open her letters. He knew they were letters; there was nothing else it could be. With one final wave he stepped back and the airplane door slid shut behind him.

* * *

"Who needs me now?" He asked exasperated.

"England," replied his brother, "we're turning the plane around." The line disconnected. Sherlock sat back, stunned. He wasn't going away. He was going to stay. He put a shaking hand to his forehead. _He was going to stay. _He noticed out of the corner of his eye, the badly wrapped little parcel on the adjoining seat. Curiousity paired with a refreshing lack of fear now taking over, he opened the package.

He was right of course. They were letters. Some of the envelopes seemed very old. They'd been written over a period of time he deduced. The one on top seemed newest. He could faintly smell a vanilla fragrance on it. He ripped that one open first.

And his heart plummeted to the floor.

* * *

John Watson watched as the aeroplane circled and landed. "I never thought I'd say this, he murmured to his wife, "but I'm so glad Moriarty is back."  
Mary nodded slightly and squeezed his hand. Together they watched the plane come to a still. Almost immediately, John's phone began to ring. As he answered, Sherlock burst through the aeroplane door.

"John!" He bellowed. John winced and held the phone away from his ear.

"Yeah Sherlock, we heard -," he started

"John," said Mary sharply, gripping his hand, "something's not right."

Sherlock was running towards them, coat billowing behind him. He was as white as a sheet. Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"What in the world..." Sherlock skidded not a halt in front of them, pale and drawn.

"Mycroft, where is Molly Hooper?"

Mycroft frowned.

"In London, Sherlock, and surely there are more important things to deal with right now-,"

"No," his brother snapped flinging a paper in his face. He gave Mycroft a moment to register what he was reading. Mycroft's jaw slackened.

"No," he echoed, shocked. He pulled out his phone and started dialing.

"What's going on?" asked John, frowning. Mary plucked the paper out of Mycroft's hand while Sherlock paced back and forth, eyes wild.

"Oh my god," murmured Mary, eyes widening. John read the letter over his shoulder.

_Dear Sherlock,_  
_I'm coming too. See you soon._  
_Love,_  
_Molly xxx_

"Wait," he muttered, "she was going to follow you? On your mission?" Mycroft's voice cut through John's fuzzy brain.

"_What do you mean she's missing?_" Mycroft's eyes were stretched to their limits. Sherlock exploded.

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE WATCHING HER!" He leapt at his brother.

"Sherlock, no!" shouted John, pulling him back. He struggled to hold his best friend back as Mycroft finished his phone call.

"Find her," he snapped into the phone, his voice ice cold. "You are supposed to be some of my best. How can one little woman have gotten around... you...?" His eyes widened and he fell back against the car.

"Just find out when her flight is and let me know at once," he said in a clipped tone.

"What?" Sherlock spat, "tell me." Mycroft swallowed.

"She got past her surveyors too. My people didn't know she was missing until I made them do a physical check." John realised that Sherlock was trembling.

"How did she know what to do?" He asked flatly, "how could she have deceived all of _you_?" Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Sherlock," he said in a carefully controlled voice, "During your stay with Miss Hooper did you ever happen to teach her the fine and respected art of pick pocketing?" Sherlock froze.

"She nicked your phone," he said softly. Mycroft nodded, eyes closed.  
"When I received the parcel for you. She cried and I held her for a moment. I should have known, my phone was switched off when I checked in the car, she must have done something and transferred all the data into one of her devices." Sherlock nodded slowly. John found he could let him go now and he did, eyeing him warily.

"Into her iPod. Clever girl," he murmured, "Her iPod wouldn't be tracked by your people." Mary shook her head.

"Unbelievable. Molly Hooper outsmarted the Holmes brothers." A phone rang, making them all jump.

"Mycroft," said the elder Holmes into the device. His eyes narrowed. "Are you sure that's the flight? When is it leaving? Yes, alright. We're on our way." The Watsons and the Holmes piled into the car.

"The Airport please," said Mycroft, "and step on it." He looked at the others worriedly.

"They can't tell for sure if it's the right flight. She might have gone and booked a pseudo flight to put us off her trail."

"How did a flight booking to whatever part of the world not make you suspicious?" demanded Mary incredulously.

"She paid through my account," Mycroft laughed hollowly "And reimbursed the money this morning. With Sherlock's transfer keeping me busy, I wasn't aware of any of this."

John sat back, a little stunned. Little Molly Hooper had decieved the British government because she was ready to follow Sherlock to the ends of the earth. To be honest, if it weren't for his family, he would probably have done the same for Sherlock. He turned to his best friend, ready to lecture him on respecting Molly a little more, but stopped short at the sight that met his eyes. Lips pressed into a thin line, Sherlock was reading the other letters, phone in hand, typing away what John assumed were texts to Molly. He exchanged a wide eyed glance with his wife. Maybe a lecture wasn't necessary.

Sherlock tried once again to call Molly, but her phone was on silent and simply rang on for ages. So instead he began sending her texts, praying to every deity he could think of for this to go his way.

* * *

Molly inhaled sharply and tried not to feel too nauseous. So Moriarty was back too. She saw him on the telly at the hospital just as she was leaving. She kept her head down and buried in her book, avoiding TV screens at all costs. Her flight was in twenty minutes. Her sixth sense was prickling horribly. Mycroft was sure to have figured out what happened by now and he would be hopping mad. She was a little awed at how easy it was. It paid to be a wallflower sometimes.

In her pocket, her phone was heavy against her thigh. She was far too scared to check it for fear she'd be tracked the minute she touched it. But it was so tempting. She bit her lip. Should she?

It was a bad idea, she thought to herself even as she slid the phone out of her pocket.  
She gasped as her eyes fell on the notifications.

Thirty four missed calls and thirty six text messages. Biting her lip she began to read.

* * *

DON'T GET ON THAT PLANE. - SH

Please answer your phone -SH

Molly, please - SH

MOLLY - SH

Molly, I'm not leaving - SH

Did you not see any television screen across the country? I was brought back - SH

Please tell me you're reading these - SH

I got your letters - SH

Molly... - SH

On the 15th of June 2011 you wrote to me first. I missed you too. - SH

I'm sorry Mycroft was your only companion through all of that. I would never, ever have wanted to put that upon you unless I had no choice - SH

Funnily enough he likes you. - SH

MOLLY HOOPER, DO NOT GET ON THAT PLANE. -MW

Molly, Sherlock isn't going anywhere. Don't leave. - JW

I think I've gotten used to a strawberry vanilla fragrance. - SH

You little thief. I want that shirt back. - SH

I was joking. You're not a thief - SH

Please look at your phone. I beg of you. - SH

Merry Christmas, Molly. Thank you for keeping an eye on everyone - SH

For god's sake Molly I'm not that great a man, to deserve your grief and mourning. Besides, I won't die, I'm perfectly safe. But you won't be if you get on that plane so LOOK AT YOUR PHONE - SH

Sherrinford. - SH

You saw Sherrinford in Paris. - SH

He's my eldest brother. He took the smart way out, I think. Succumbed to that ridiculous sentiment. - SH

Of course the Yard would suffer without me. They're a bunch of incompetent fools that can't tell a triple murder from a gas explosion accident. - SH

Yes, China was nice - SH

Writing on Valentine's Day is terribly cliché, Molly Hooper but I would not expect any less from you. You are forgiven for that. - SH

You are not, however, forgiven for Meat Dagger. - SH

I'm touched that you defended my honour Molly. It's pleasantly surprising to see your fiery nature. Except for right now when I'm going mad with worry. - SH

You and John can be incredibly childish sometimes – SH

Yes, I'd be your Valentine. Especially if you don't go flying off to Heaven's knows where. - SH

Well I suppose Tom wasn't a complete idiot. Of course there was something between us you stupid girl - SH

Nasty hope? So pessimistic, Miss Hooper. It's unbecoming. - SH

Anderson is an idiot. But I suppose even a broken clock tells the right time twice - SH

I could never forget you Molly Hooper. - SH

And now, Anderson has run out of the number of times he makes correct assumptions. Do not listen to him any further. - SH

Molly please check your phone. We're nearly at the airport. Please. - SH

* * *

Molly didn't even know she was shaking like a leaf, out of pure fear and adrenaline.  
She looked up, searching for the familiar billowing black coat and unruly hair. When she realised she couldn't see over the crowd, she stood up on her chair.

Where was he?

Molly crossed her fingers tightly, hoping the universe wasn't playing a joke on her.

"Please, please, please," she chanted under her breath.

_"This is the last call for all passengers of flight 743, I repeat, this is the last call for passengers of flight 743, please make your way..."_

The voice over the intercom faded away as she saw him. He was looking around wildly, searching, searching for her. He saw her, and his face went from blind panic to cold fury. He strode towards her, the crown easily parting for the tall, angry man. She gulped. Maybe she should run. Hopping down from the chair, she wrung her hands together. Oh boy.

"Molly Hooper," he said loudly as he walked forward. Molly was ashamed to say she squeaked a little. His eyes were narrowed into thin slits.

"Do not ever," he said towering over her, "_ever_, do that to me again."

"Hi Sherlock," she said softly.

"Of all the foolish - most risky plans I have ever heard of in my life-," he said, still shaking with fury, "this has got to be the worst. How exactly were you planning to find me once you got off that plane?"

"I would have figured something out," she muttered, turning scarlet.

"Oh yes, I'm sure," his tone was biting. "I'm sure you would have figured out my location and my disguise and helped me all the way like the good little pathologist you are." Tears stung her eyes. He was right of course. Sentiment, he would say, had blinded her.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused?" he demanded, "the problems in Mycroft's security, the hacking, putting the entire mission at risk? None of that would have occurred to you, would it?"

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her head lowered. Shame washed over her. Oh god, she was so stupid. His voice became softer and more dangerous.

"And do you know what the worst part is?" Molly shook her head, eyes fixed on her feet. Sherlock grasped her wrists firmly.

"You could have - no - you _would _have died, Molly Hooper." She nodded miserably. It was true.

Sherlock's voice shook as he spoke, "And I couldn't stand it if you died."

Molly's mouth fell open.

_I couldn't stand it if you died._

"I wrote that to you," she said, shocked. He nodded, his eyes soft. She closed her eyes.

"I was such an idiot towards the end of those."

"Oh Molly, I don't think you were the idiot." He tenderly stroked her face. Molly tingled with electricity at his touch. It almost broke her heart, how loving it was.

"I've caused you so much pain Molly Hooper," he said in a low voice, "and I don't know how you can still love me enough to risk your life for me."

"But I do."

"Yes, you do." Then he was kissing her, his hands cradling her face, his lips soft and urgent at the same time. Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and he literally lifted her, so her feet dangled inches of the ground. It felt so good, so lovely. She felt wanted and cherished and oh God, it felt so _good_.

"Wow," came a voice as they broke apart. Mary grinned a Cheshire cat grin. "I'm glad we weren't too late."

"Indeed," said Mycroft looking slightly amused. John just shook his head, having given up all hope on finding another normal one amongst his friends.

"For the record, Molly Hooper," he whispered as they all trooped out of the bust airport, "I love you too. Also, I took your rainbow jumper with me. Hideous as it is, it's quite cosy."

* * *

**A/N: And there you have it. okay, let me know what you think with a review ;) I want to know if I'm any good at writing Sherlock/ Sherlolly stories and whether I should continue.**

**Until next time my darlings! (if y'all want a next time that is).**

**Much love,**

**xo**


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